This Slender Thread
by uleanblue
Summary: AU after Chosen. Buffy is transported through a portal to a different time, and must face an unexpected enemy while trying to avert yet another apocalypse.
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

**October 2003**

"So...What's up with the total lack of action tonight? It's like they all called out or something."

Faith didn't just sound disappointed. She sounded slightly pissed off.

Buffy glanced at her companion, a smile ghosting across her face as they moved in tandem through empty darkened streets, their synchronous footfalls echoing across pavement. Faith was right, though. As far as slayage went, the night had been dead, no pun intended.

"I'm sure we'll find something dust-worthy tonight." She replied. "It's not like vampires need sick days. "

"Hope so. Gotta work off some _tension_." Faith looked at Buffy meaningfully.

"You and me both."

Buffy doubted that she and Faith were talking about precisely the same _kind_ of tension, but right now she could totally relate to that, and stress, and well, pretty much any word that was the opposite of _relaxed_.

It was ironic, really.

Shutting down the Hellmouth and saving the world _yet again_ should count for something, right?

Buffy could close her eyes and recall that _moment_, that brief, shining moment after defeating The First when the intense euphoria of survival, of new possibilities had flared with incandescent brightness. They had stood, all of them, gazing at the Crater Formerly Known as Sunnydale, and her future had appeared as open, limitless and unfettered as the vast expanse that stretched out before her.

Apparently, though, no good deed went unpunished.

There was the hectic training schedule, the daily insanity that arose from refereeing a group of super powered teen girls forced to compete for limited bathroom space, and of course, an appalling _lack_ of decent shopping. That in itself was a problem of potentially apocalyptic proportions.

Which is why she and Faith now patrolled the quiet cobbled streets of some quaint, picturesque Scottish hamlet whose name she hadn't yet bothered to fully remember, but may have had something to do with pigs. Or was it beer?

Either way, there was apparently a complete absence of nightlife, human or otherwise.

Still, at the very least, it got her out of their new headquarters, away from the noise, the crowded dorm-like atmosphere, away from what was quickly becoming the suffocating responsibility of playing mentor and peacemaker to the growing horde of fledgling Slayers.

Faith shot her a look. "You still not sleeping?"

Buffy drew in a breath. Sometimes it shocked her just how perceptive Faith was underneath that brash exterior. Hell, sometimes it still shocked her that they could actually interact without trying to kill each other. "Not so much. I'm dealing, though."

"Hmm."

They walked on, lapsing into silence. Faith's low key way of asking about the nightmares she'd recently been having was a pleasant contrast from the virtual Spanish Inquisition she'd faced from Giles when she'd first mentioned them. Not that it wasn't completely understandable, but the unrelenting questions she didn't have answers for, and the hovering and the borderline obsessive eyeglass cleaning were beginning to make her feel rather _stabby_.

As far as Buffy was concerned, prophetic dreams were all well and good in theory, but in reality they were made of one hundred percent pure suck. At first they had been vague and disjointed enough to be merely annoying, but the now ominous, violent dreams were increasing in frequency and intensity, leaving her drained and irritable.

Buffy knew, deep down, that another Very Bad Thing lurked on the horizon.

She sighed.

Better change the subject.

"So, when does Robin get back?"

"Not for another week. If I don't kill something soon, I might actually end up _hurting_ him, ya know?" Faith said, smirking and making what was quite possibly an inappropriate hand gesture.

"Oversharing much?" Buffy cut in.

"Are you kidding?" Faith shot back, incredulous, "come on, that was tame."

"Your version of tame can be a little scary."

Faith laughed, then waggled her eyebrows suggestively. "Robin likes it scary. This one time-"

"Again with the oversharing." Buffy sharply reminded her.

"All right!" Faith threw up her hands in mock surrender. "I will say this, though," she said as she reached over her shoulder and drew an elegant, slim katana from its dark polished scabbard. The curved blade glinted in the moonlight; it truly was an exquisitely crafted weapon. "The man knows how to give a girl a sword." Her tone was soft, almost reverent.

"So clearly, the way to your heart isn't flowers or candy, but edged weapons."

"You know it, B."

Their pace was slow, almost leisurely as they walked to the end of the block. There was a long row of tightly spaced, narrow cottages with thatched roofs that appeared almost fairytale like. As they passed, the cottages became interspersed with red bricked structures that appeared to be far newer as the buildings thinned out, and the cobbled streets sloped upward, becoming more hilly as they approached the outskirts of the small town.

Up ahead was a grassy hill dominated by a huge, ancient tree. Under the pale beacon of the autumn moon, Buffy could see the silhouettes of several headstones at the hill's crest, rising from the ground like thin, bony fingers.

They were making steady progress toward the cemetery when she felt it.

Like a static charge, prickling the hairs on her neck. Buffy paused, mid stride, and cast her awareness outward.

Thin coils of energy roiled and pulsed, dark, malignant and powerful.

"You feel that?" She murmured to Faith.

"I feel...something." Faith closed her eyes. After a moment, she shook her head faintly.

"Not a vamp, that's for sure."

"Just over that hill, I think."

Faith rolled her eyes. "Cemetery. You'd think they'd be a little more imaginative."

They crept forward, their senses directing them to the source of the energy, eventually taking cover behind a freestanding crypt that stood nestled amongst neat rows of carved, timeworn headstones.

They could hear a deep voice, chanting.

In a small open area there was a large double circle, marked with strange glyphs, painted roughly onto the grass with a dark, viscous substance that looked like blood. Small flaming braziers were placed atop several headstones, casting eerie, flickering shadows over the proceedings.

More than a half dozen tall, gray, scaly demons stood poised around the circle, each armed with a long handled battle axe. Each of them bore what appeared to be the same marks on their chests that corresponded to the glyphs on the circle. In the center was the chanting figure, arms raised to the inky night sky, a headdress with long, curving, bone-like horns obscuring its features.

The sour tang of blood hung in the air, mixed with smoke and incense.

It smelled of foulness, and death.

"Fuckin' A," whispered Faith.

Buffy could only nod as a sense of foreboding clutched at her gut. This was big. Too big for just the two of them. "We need backup," she murmured, almost inaudibly.

"On it."

Faith whipped her phone out, the tiny light from the backscreen casting an eerie glow on her features. After a few quiet taps on the keypad, she carefully slid it back into her jacket. "Done."

Buffy stared at the hooded figure. She felt a sort of hazy recognition, a half formed sense that she should _know_ this, but it was jumbled around in her brain, like pieces of a puzzle she couldn't fit together. Distantly, she heard someone whisper her name. As each second swept by she remained frozen, silent, as her mind whirled and struggled to process the tableau before her before the sense of insane, frantic dread paralyzed her completely.

"Buffy!"

She snapped back to reality.

There was an urgent edge to Faith's whisper. "Jesus, B, you with me?"

That instant, scattered fragments of image and memory clicked fully, startlingly into place.

_This. The dreams._

_Oh, Fuck._

Her eyes widened.

She found her voice, clamped her hand on Faith's wrist. "We have to get out of here. Now!" She breathed urgently.

Faith's expression was hard, questioning, but to Buffy's incredible relief she simply nodded.

"Let's roll, then."

Without warning there was the harsh sound of ripping fabric. Faith jerked back abruptly, then staggered, a pained hiss escaping her. "What the Fuck!" she croaked, reaching up reflexively across her body with her left hand.

Buffy turned, saw the right shoulder of Faith's jacket was slashed open. Deep, jagged cuts marred her flesh; blood rapidly leaked out, staining her shirt.

"Faith!" Buffy yelled, all pretense of stealth forgotten.

A second later Faith cried out and doubled over, clutching her abdomen. Her head whipped up, eyes wide, her mouth set in a tight grimace. When she pulled her hand away from her stomach, it too was bloody. "Aww, _shit_."

Instantly, Buffy moved toward her, but Faith waved her off. "No, no! I'm okay!"

Buffy stood, tensely scanning the area for an impending attack as Faith, clutching her midsection, backed herself up against a headstone before sliding into a seated position. She could sense traces of dark, crackling energy lingering in the air around them. Every single nerve was tense with anticipation, but there was no rush of heavy footfalls, no rustle of weapons, nothing.

Of course, there didn't have to be, Buffy realized, when the opponent could use magic to take them down from a distance. A scorching wave of anger coursed through her, then, and her Slayer instinct surged forth, eager for the exhilaration of battle. Her tone was steely. "I'm gonna rip that magician's horns off and make him _eat_ them."

"Never been a big fan of the mojo, myself." Faith gritted out. With her free hand she reached behind her, unclasped the scabbard and extended the katana toward Buffy. "All you got is your stake," she explained. "Here. Go introduce Mister Mojo and his buddies to my shiny new friend."

Buffy nodded. "Works for me."

Buffy snatched up the weapon, then turned and launched herself forward, leaping smoothly to the wide flat top of the nearest stone crypt to gain a better vantage point in the murky darkness.

One of the demons had broken formation, and was moving toward them.

Blood had been shed. Buffy thought it only fair to return the favor.

She dove off the crypt, rolled to her feet, then quickly covered the short distance to reach her target. The demon growled, gripped its axe with both hands and shifted into a combat stance. It barely had a chance to draw back its weapon before Buffy slipped easily through its guard. She knocked the axe aside with a single kick, then thrust the katana deep into its chest. It hung there, body arched in agony, convulsing for a moment until she yanked the blade free; the demon gurgled thickly as it crumpled to the ground.

Her attention snapped to the circle. She stalked over, sword raised. Stationed like sentinels around the circle, the six remaining demons stood unmoving as the sorcerer continued to incant.

What the hell were they waiting for?

Suddenly the sorcerer fell silent, then jerked his head up, his dirty, skeletal features twisted into a manic grin. He clapped his hands over his head, once, and the circle and glyphs began to glow. She noticed now that he wore a strange metal amulet, and that the stone in the center was also pulsing with light.

He spread his arms out, palms up, and shouted. "Eryishon k'shala meh-uhn!"

Above his head the air shimmered. A crackling, flashing rift appeared.

"Diprecht, Doh-tehenlo Nu-Eryishon!"

The swirling rift rapidly expanded, tendrils of lightning snaking out in random bursts, and Buffy abruptly found herself buffeted by a powerful gale that threatened to throw her off balance. It was strong, like an undertow, drawing her closer to the vortex.

The sorcerer stood off to one side, still grinning, apparently unaffected by the pull of the rift, his amulet glowing bright like a beacon.

He didn't seem too concerned that his minions were also struggling, their arms flailing against the ever widening vortex.

Buffy decided it was time to wipe that disgustingly smug smile off his face, and smashing his fancy necklace would probably be a good place to start.

She hastily slipped the sword into the sheath on her back, relaxed her limbs and allowed the momentum created by the wind to carry her over to the sorcerer, who stared at her in confusion that shifted into shock when she seized his upper arm in one hand and grabbed the chain holding the amulet.

"You stupid bitch! What are you doing? Let go!" He yelled as he thrashed in her grip.

Digging her fingers deeper into the sorcerer's bony arm, she pulled him down sharply until his face was right at eye level.

"Call it off!" Buffy growled. "Shut it down!"

He sneered at her, then spat, "It's too late!"

He laughed, then, loud and gloating, then said, "Have fun on the other side."

With that, he jerked his body back hard and kicked out, almost dislodging her-but her grip on his arm was like a vise and he was no match for her strength.

For a brief second Buffy simply stared at him, rage coursing through her like acid, burning and noxious, before coalescing on the point of light on his chest. His eyes widened almost comically when she let go of the chain around his neck and drew back her fist, aiming directly for the amulet.

"No!" He screamed, shaking his head frantically, "No! You'll kill us both!"

Her arm quivered. God, she really wanted to _hurt_ him-the urge to pulp his face was nearly overwhelming-but she managed to stay her fist. Instead, she seized his other arm and held fast.

One by one the demons became airborne and disappeared as they were sucked into the churning rift. The wind grew fiercer and her clothes flapped and rippled across her body; she had to shout to be heard over the howl.

"Then it looks like you're coming along for the ride!"

She felt a flare of satisfaction, even as they were both lifted off their feet from the sheer force of the whirlwind and he was jerked from her grasp.

He wasn't smiling anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

**October 1945**

Tom Riddle contained a sigh and resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose as he paced back and forth amongst the group of black robed young men, appraising their efforts as they practiced their spellwork in a moonlit clearing not far from the cemetery outside Little Hangleton.

Merlin, he really had his work cut out for him, didn't he?

A jet of crimson light had just slammed into the the side of a majestic oak, blasting away a generous chunk of tree trunk in a splintering explosion of bark and leaves.

It would have been impressive, had the hex actually struck the target dummy set up adjacent to the tree. Apparently, possessing a pureblood pedigree did not equate to being remotely competent, magically or otherwise.

"Well, Avery," Tom drawled, his tone sardonic, "it's comforting to know if we're ever attacked by a grove of marauding elms, I can count on you to prevail."

Avery glanced nervously at his leader.

Snorts of laughter erupted from the other men as Tom strode over to Avery, laughter that quickly faded as the mirthful expression abruptly vanished from the dark haired man's face. He addressed Avery sternly. "You need to _focus_...tighten up your wand movements if you want to achieve any degree of accuracy in your casting." With barely a glance at the target, Tom deftly flicked his pale yew wand in demonstration. "Like _this_."

The target disintegrated in a shower of particles, fluttering delicately to the ground like snow.

Avery looked down, chagrined. "Sorry, My Lord." He mumbled.

Tom fixed him with a flat, baleful stare. "Need I remind you why you are here?" He asked softly, menacingly, then swept his gaze to each of the young men, who now stood in silent deference. "Why all of you are here?"

No one dared to speak.

He strode to the center of the clearing. "Have I not wholly dedicated myself to this task, to teach all of you, guide you, so that you may become finely honed _instruments_ of change-instruments who will restore greatness to the wizarding world?"

Tom stalked back over to Avery, who stood frozen in place, like a deer just before the wolf tears its throat out. It was pathetic.

It made him angry.

"Perhaps _you _would perform better as the target, hmm?" He asked, pointedly.

Avery's eyes widened, his mouth worked, but no sound came out.

"Because _if_ you are not fully dedicated," his voice grew louder, more forceful, "_if_ you allow yourself these lapses in concentration, if you _fail_ to unite your mind and purpose with your magic, then you make yourself-no, you make every single one of us a _target_ for those who would stand against us," he emphasized, allowing his words to resonate through the men who now listened in rapt, reverent attention, "and that...is _unacceptable_."

Tom breathed deeply, calmed himself before continuing. "I expect, no, I _demand_ from you _nothing_ that I am not willing to give myself."

Well, maybe that wasn't entirely true, but they certainly didn't need to know that. Nor did they need to know that their ultimate purpose was to become instruments of _his_ will.

What was that saying? If you want to make an omelette, you have to crack some eggs.

He had no doubt that more than a few of them would be broken along the way.

His musings were interrupted by a rumble, like distant thunder, followed by a whine that quickly grew to an ear splitting shriek. A tight, roiling knotted cloud had coalesced in the air above the cemetery about 50 meters from the forest clearing where he and his Knights had gathered to train. He watched, tense yet fascinated, as bolts of lightning arced wildly from the cloud to the ground. He could feel its dark energy pulsing outward, racing over his skin, electrifying his senses.

Then with a concussive whoosh of air that nearly staggered several of his Knights as it swept across the field like a great wave, the sky itself was torn open.

A black, swirling void appeared within the cloud, then an instant later several hulking, gray, horned creatures tumbled through the opening to plunge heavily to the earth, their arrival punctuated by brief but intense flashes of light. They were wearing dark brown leather kilts with matching gauntlets, each of them armed with huge, lethal looking battle axes. They lumbered to their feet, raising their weapons and assuming defensive crouches, as if waiting.

Abraxas Malfoy, one of the scant few of his Knights who could be considered anything more than a simple lackey, had moved to stand beside him, his expression a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. "Bloody Hell! What are they?"

Tom observed them, speculating, "Some sort of Hell Beast, possibly." Though he managed to keep his features schooled, inside he was practically buzzing with a heady mix of adrenaline tinged with taut anticipation.

An idea was swiftly germinating, fueled in part by the potent, intoxicating dark energy that still crackled over his senses. These creatures were unlike any he'd ever encountered, and his instincts-which had served him well thus far- were that the best way to deal with the unknown was to conquer it.

He shot Abraxas a vicious smile that was more a baring of teeth. "We shall learn their purpose here, and _deal_ with them accordingly."

Abraxas inclined his head in agreement, his mouth quirking into a grin as he readied his wand.

Tom whirled to address his men, his resonant voice infused with an almost palpable excitement. "Well, Knights, it appears our evening just became considerably more interesting, no?"

Just then, the swirling vortex flashed with light again.

"My Lord!" Nott's voice was tight with alarm as he pointed to the vortex. "Something else is coming through!"

Two figures hurtled through the open rift and crashed to the earth. One was a thin robed man, a horned headdress askew atop his head. His face was set in a scowl as he hauled himself up onto his hands and knees. He immediately scrambled off to one side and began to fumble through his robes. The demons moved toward the man, and for a moment Tom thought they would attack him, but the robed man hastily shouted a guttural command in an unfamiliar language, and they snapped into a loose half circle facing outwards from him.

The second figure, a petite young woman with long blonde hair, hit the ground, then rolled gracefully to her feet, drawing a slim, slightly curved blade from a sheath strapped to her back.

They watched as without hesitation, the woman advanced on the closest of the demons and swept her sword in a quick, horizontal stroke, slicing deep across its midsection. As it sank to its knees she skewered it with a decisive thrust through its throat.

His eyes remained locked on the figure of the young woman as she decimated the creatures with a fluid, economical grace that was truly a marvel to behold. Who was she? That her weapon was of muggle origins did not diminish the impressiveness of her actions. With every elegant slice, every bold thrust, she brought death to the demons before her and it was _bloody_ _beautiful_.

He needed to get closer.

* * *

Buffy took down the closest demon, then faced next head on as two others rushed to flank her.

She dodged the axe that swung heavily down, then arced her blade high and across, decapitating the beast. She dropped to a crouch and spun, kicking her leg straight out and sweeping the two flanking demons off their feet. Springing back to her feet she drove the sword downward, piercing one of the prone demons through the chest.

She jerked the weapon free, and as she pivoted she took a kick to the chest that sent her flying onto her back. Instantly, she rolled away from an axe that whistled downward next to her head to become embedded in the ground. She snapped her legs back, flipping herself up and using her momentum to slam herself feet first into the demon who had just regained its feet, knocking him back down again before she finished him with a slash to his neck.

Buffy spun and raised her blade just in time to block a hard blow; she used the demon's greater weight and momentum to her advantage, twisting her body as the demon moved in. She brought her elbow up behind her, hard, jabbing the demon in the solar plexus, then turned and slammed a solid left hook into his jaw. As it reeled backwards she stabbed it in the belly. She yanked the katana free, then took the last demon down with a vicious slice down its front that nearly eviscerated it.

In less than five minutes she was done.

It was _too_ easy.

Buffy advanced on the sorcerer who stood in front of her, regarding her with a strange, inscrutable smile. Neither of them noticed several black robed figures that materialized, silent as smoke, in a perimeter around them.

Her left hand shot out, grabbing the base of one curved horn, and she ripped the bulky headdress off the sorcerer's head.

And froze.

It was Ethan Rayne.

He was incredibly thin, almost emaciated, and dirty, and Buffy wondered how in the world she had literally stared him right in the face only minutes before, and yet failed to recognize him.

He scrubbed a hand through sweaty, close cropped hair and grinned at her. "Hello, darling. Miss me?"

"Ethan." She whispered.

Her stunned disbelief slowly drained away as a cold, sickening sensation churned its way up through her belly. "This whole thing was a trap."

And she had walked right into it, even after dreaming about it. For one dizzying second her emotions were a dark and ominous whirl, but she ruthlessly clamped them down, shoved them to the farthest corner of her consciousness to be dealt with later.

If nothing else, she was so going to kick his ass.

Buffy squared her shoulders and focused like a laser on Ethan. "So. You've decided to add _fugitive_ to your long list of dubious accomplishments." Her tone was derisive.

A large portion of Ethan's composure melted away. "I'm no fugitive! I was _released_ from that stinking shithole of a prison you and that overgrown boy scout left me to rot in!" he growled in reaction, jabbing a finger at her. Buffy noticed then that on his left hand he wore a studded leather gauntlet. The armored fingers were articulated, with sharp pointed metal tips, and it stirred in her a faint, fluttering moment of unease.

After a moment he appeared to contain himself, then he asked slyly, "Aren't you going to ask me how I got out?"

"Not really interested, but I have a feeling you're going to tell me anyway."

"All I really needed was good _legal_ representation."

He appeared smug now, almost gleeful, despite the fact that she'd destroyed all the demons and he was alone. It was disturbing, the way he seemed to vacillate between rage and this almost weird _happiness_, and the manic glint in his eyes was just so very _off _from what she remembered of him.

She regarded him with wary skepticism. "Is that supposed to mean something? Is that what this is about? You're just a _bitch_ getting payback?"

"That was the general plan." He said, then appeared slightly affronted. "Well, not the bitch part...or getting dragged here, for that matter."

"Then maybe your plan should have called for better minions, because they were totally lame." She shot back. "I barely even broke a sweat."

"Willing sacrifices, all of them." He replied dismissively. "Though I admit it's disappointing they didn't make a slightly better showing for themselves. They had excellent references, too." He added. "And now, I should be wrapping this up and getting home. I really have quite the backlog of DVDs to catch up on."

He said it so casually, with such matter of factness that Buffy wasn't prepared as he abruptly curled his gloved left hand into a claw, and raked it through the air; first in a sharp sideways motion, then down and across.

Searing, white hot pain exploded across her back. She gasped and staggered gracelessly, nearly dropping her katana, then cried out as deep, claw like wounds opened diagonally from her right shoulder to her chest. She could feel a heavy cascade of warm wetness down her body, trickling between her breasts, soaking the back of her pants. She sank down and fell forward onto her hands and knees, panting. Saliva pooled in her mouth; she fought the urge to vomit.

A sudden shout from Ethan prompted her to jerk her head upright.

A tall figure in a hooded black robe stood, arm outstretched, a thin, pale stick grasped in their hand.

Whoever it was, they had impeccable timing.

Throwing off her light headedness, she pushed to her feet, propelled her protesting body closer to Ethan as he shouted, "Who the fuck are you?" at the stranger.

With a subtle, almost barely perceptible motion the stranger twisted their wrist. A sparking jet of red light shot toward Ethan, striking him in the leg. Ethan hissed, and raised his gloved hand.

He was distracted, and didn't react in time as she lunged at him.

Holding the sword in both hands she swiftly brought it down, chopping his gauntleted hand off at the wrist. He screamed, long and loud, blood spraying out in an arc, his face contorting into an agonized grimace.

"I could say the gloves are off, Ethan, but that might be a bit obvious, even for me." She snarled.

He stumbled back a few steps, clutching the stump of his wrist against his body, then he spat out a word in a language Buffy didn't understand. The amulet on his chest flared to life, and with a shimmering swirl of energy he vanished.

"No!"

* * *

More black robed men emerged from the shadows. There were easily a dozen of them.

Crap.

She stood, warily eying the hooded men who surrounded her.

Buffy clenched her teeth, tried to shift her katana, but her arm just spasm-ed uselessly, refusing to cooperate. It was a wonder she could maintain her grip on the sword at all. Ethan's glove had sliced through a number of muscles in her back and shoulder with brutal efficiency, effectively disarming her. And with her adrenaline now depleted, the impact of her rather substantial blood loss swiftly became apparent.

There was a good chance she was about to black out, with the added bonus of doing so in front of potential enemies.

It was the icing on the cake of her shitty night.

Already, the edges of her vision were beginning to gray out, and it was a struggle not to sway on her feet. Buffy tamped down the desperate, sinking weakness that threatened to overwhelm her, and waited for them to make a move.

The tall one who had confronted Ethan stepped forward and pulled his hood back, then spread his hands in a gesture of conciliation.

Even here, with nothing more than moonlight highlighting his features, Buffy saw he was young-much younger than she'd expected. And he absolutely nailed the definition of tall, dark, and handsome. Beautiful, even-all dark, wavy hair, pale skin, and fine features.

"Easy, Miss," he said, gently, as if trying to calm her, "My name is Tom."

He moved forward incrementally, palms facing up, almost supplicating. "We mean you no harm."

"Right." She scoffed, shocked at how steady her voice remained, even though she felt on the verge of collapse. "Men in black robes, at night, in a cemetery. Not really getting a campfire sing-along vibe here."

He smiled at her, then said reassuringly, "We have no intention of hurting you, Miss..." He paused a moment, expectant.

"Summers." She whispered. "Buffy Summers."

God, she was so tired.

At that moment she wanted so much to believe him, to trust him, no matter that her tired, fuzzy brain was screaming that they were very likely not of the good. He had attacked Ethan, though, diverted him, before he could finish her off. And damn, he had a nice smile.

He simply stood there, his arms still spread out as if beckoning to her. His eyes were dark, his gaze intense, almost hypnotic and Buffy briefly imagined she'd felt a whispered caress of words across her mind. A wave of drowsy warmth washed over her, and she swayed, yet remained standing. The urge to simply close her eyes, to curl up and sleep was staggering.

She wasn't sure if she imagined his eyes widening fractionally, then narrowing slightly. He stepped closer to her then, closer, into her personal space and Buffy tried to warn him to back off, but she could no longer connect her brain to her mouth to get the words out.

Everything else fell away as her perception contracted, began to fade and darken, and she hadn't noticed that the other men had tightened the circle around her, nor did she feel her sword slip out of her now numb fingers to clatter on hard ground. And then she didn't feel anything at all as she slid quietly into the darkness.

Tom reached forward, instinctively, as Buffy's knees buckled. She sagged against him, his hands catching in the wet, ragged fabric of her shirt. She was deathly pale, the entire back portion of her clothing soaked with blood.

He gently cupped one hand behind her head as he lowered her to the ground. Her breathing was labored, uneven, and he could feel warm blood seeping over his fingers from the wounds on her back.

She felt tiny and fragile in his arms, yet she had just slaughtered half a dozen demons with a practiced, efficient ease that spoke of undeniable power. Even standing before him, bloody and disheveled, her presence was commanding. She was a mystery, one he would not have an opportunity to unravel if she died here.

He knelt down next to her, taking in the details of her strange attire, then carefully rolled her onto her side and traced his wand against her back and shoulder, murmuring an incantation. _Vulnera_ _Sanentur. _The bleeding slowed, but did not stop. Normally, the spell would have instantly halted any hemorrhaging. He did it again, with the same result. _Damn_.

He snapped his head up. "Black! I need blood replenishing potion. _Now_."

The young man rushed to his side, dropped to his knees next to him, then plucked a thin vial from a small leather pouch on his belt. Tom took it, flicked the stopper out with his thumb, then slowly tipped the liquid into the woman's mouth. Still focused on his task, he murmured to Black, "Do you have dittany? I'll need it later."

Black withdrew a tiny bottle, handed it to him wordlessly. He pocketed it, then repeated the spells until the bleeding was reduced to a sluggish oozing. He sat back on his haunches, then pressed two sticky, bloody fingers to the pulsepoint on her neck. Still a bit thready, but even. It would have to do for the time being.

Carefully he scooped her into his arms and got to his feet. "Malfoy, Black, with me. The rest of you are dismissed."

As the robed men swiftly disapparated he turned to the two Knights and said briskly, "Bring her sword and that glove to my flat. And I have work for both of you."

With the woman tightly cradled against him, he turned on the spot and disappeared.


End file.
